This commentary is by Lewis Mudge, a member of the Charlotte Selectboard who is the Central Africa director at Human Rights Watch. This commentary was written in a private capacity.
Just before the holidays, I took the long trip from Burlington to Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic. The country has been wracked by periods of intense conflict since independence, especially over the last nine years, and much of it is under the control of armed groups.
Before landing, passengers were not only worried about rebel movements, the weekly kidnapping count, and the nightly curfew. We also had to concern ourselves with the formalities of immigration. I approached the desk, passport in hand, and reached into my back pocket for my vaccine passport.
As I bantered with the control officer, I asked, “Why do we need to have this vaccine card?” She answered, “Well, it’s to keep us all safe — and honestly, we don’t want you coming into our country if you’re just going to get sick.”
This vaccine passport was not inspired in the time of Covid. My own card dates back to 2002, when I first traveled to Africa, and has been updated accordingly along the way. It is my Yellow Card.
In 1935, the first iteration of the Yellow Card standardized the approach to a continent-wide killer in the global south. While it documented vaccination against cholera and polio, its raison d’etre, at least in Africa, is to mark one’s protection from yellow fever.
The virus, spread by mosquitoes, results in fever, chills, muscle pain and an eerie yellow coloring of one’s skin. Once contracted, it can only be managed as the virus runs its course. For those with a severe case, the prognosis is not good: Up to half of those with a serious case die.
The vaccine against yellow fever was a game-changer in terms of advancing public health across large swaths of Africa. Many Americans won’t have heard of the Yellow Card because it is necessary only in less frequently traveled countries, but it is every bit as important as a passport in Central Africa.
The card represents a collective effort to stand in solidarity against a disease. It’s a positive validation of how we (the big “we” of humanity) can work together and cross state borders safely.
Before the Covid pandemic, I never used to think much of the card. It was just another thing to pack with my passport. But since then (and since travel has restarted), it’s taken on additional meaning. It’s almost as if it’s a pledge to the inhabitants of the country I’m stepping into: I’m doing my part not to spread disease — and not to get sick and force you to treat me.
And in my 20 years of traveling with the Yellow Card, I’ve never heard someone say it violates their basic rights. It is not considered a government control mechanism. It’s taken as a given that it’s a necessary piece of documentation needed to enter certain countries.
We are starting to see a shift toward this type of documentation with Covid. If I want to go visit in-laws in Canada, I need to prove I have the vaccine.
Vermonters, like all Americans, are going to continue to have different takes on the Covid vaccines and boosters. Some, like my family, will continue to receive boosters and will sign their children up early. Others will opt to take a slower approach or to forgo vaccinations all together. That is their right and, while we may disagree on the science, these rights should be respected.
But we are undeniably moving toward a different world, one where vaccine status determines access across borders.
As we trend toward this new era of formalized vaccine status identification, it will be seen as a godsend by some and overreach by others. But it shouldn’t be seen as new. Some parts of the world have been using this documentation for years. We’re just catching up.
